


Bound Until Death

by katambrosius



Series: Omovember 2017 [9]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bondage, Desperation, Gen, Omorashi, Pee, Wetting, omovember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katambrosius/pseuds/katambrosius
Summary: Omovember Day 9A Dark Brotherhood Assassin is captured by a civilian while fleeing Vittoria Vici's wedding.  Waking up after hours of drugged unconsciousness, he finds himself struggling with an extremely full bladder.





	Bound Until Death

Tristan looked back over his shoulder as he ran. The shouts of the guards filled the air, and everywhere civilians were on the lookout. Back alleys and dark shadows would only hide him for so long, and his magicka was nearly exhausted. In his hands were the bow and arrow Gabriella had led him to. He hadn’t used them, which might come in handy now, but he still only had one shot. 

The shouting got closer, they were right ahead. With one last desperate attempt to stay hidden, he jumped down the stairs to his right, and with the last of his strength, cast a spell to unlock it. He slipped in and shut the door just before the guards saw him. He leant his back against the wood, panting quietly, and looked around. Just some rich bastards basement probably. Maybe even a friend of Vittoria. 

Damn Vittoria. Sure, she was a hard kill, but not as hard as others he’d been contracted to deal with. Still, she was the closest he’d ever come to getting caught (not that he’d gotten away yet), and that earned her a special place of dislike in his heart. Tristan made a point of neutrality most of the time. She should consider it an honour that he cared enough to bother. He stifled a snort of amusement, stepping slowly into the basement. At least she’d been pretty. It was almost a shame to kill such a-

***

When Tristan awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was tied up. The second thing he noticed was his very full bladder. How long had he been out? He looked around blearily, but couldn’t see anyone. He was alone for now. It was then he noticed the dryness of his mouth, and the emptiness of his stomach. As his vision cleared, he noticed he was still in the basement. Across from him was a well structured brewing station. An alchemist. Fantastic. He craned his neck to see behind him, and there was an enchanting station. Ah, a sorcerer then. That explained how he’d been caught. They’d probably been working down here when he came in.

It only took him a second longer to realise his own magicka was still dangerously low. Worryingly low. Had he been poisoned? Probably. He knew if he’d captured an assassin, he’d drug them up with whatever he could get his hands on, and whoever this was clearly had a pretty good selection to choose from. Tristan tensed his thighs and wriggled slightly in his bonds. He was certainly tied up well. His captor knew what he was doing. Tristan cursed under his breath. Getting away might not be as easy as he’d hoped. 

Or as quick. His bladder gave a sharp throb, and his legs strained against the ropes. What he would give to be able to close his legs. Tristan groaned and let his head fall back. Blinking up at the roof, he began going over all the possible ways to escape captivity. He managed to keep himself occupied for a few moments, but realised downheartedly that his rather distracted and exhausted brain was not going to be much help. All he could focus on was how miserable he felt, and how desperately he needed to pee. Jiggling his legs, the only real movement he could manage, he waited. 

He stilled instantly as footsteps approached the basement. Light, but heavier than a woman’s. So his captor was male. Tristan held himself completely still, not even turning his head. He watched the man enter his field of vision from the corner of his eye. A Nord. Not really surprising, given the location, but all the alchemy? The enchantments? Very unusual. 

“A Dark Brotherhood assassin. How my luck has turned to have you wandering in here. Do you have any idea how much I could sell you for? The guards would fight each other over who got to turn you in.” He sounded so smug, Tristan lost any resolve he’d had to stay silent. He licked his dry lips and cleared his throat. 

“No one would pay for me,” he rasped. “They’d knock down your door, and might even take you in as well. Guards don’t take too well to men harbouring criminals, you know.” His voice had regained some strength by the end.

“You little-! I’m not harbouring you!” he spat. “I’ve captured you, you worthless scum, and maybe I’d skip the guards. I could go right to the Jarl herself.”

“Then why haven’t you?” Tristan drawled, trying to sound bored even as his bladder spasmed and he fought to remain still. 

“Maybe I want to have some fun with you first.” 

The Nord walked over to a table covered in potion bottles. He picked one up, examining the label. 

“This one,” he turned to look Tristan in the eye, “would send cold running through your veins. Cold enough to give you frostbite. You might even loose a limb. Or this,” he exchanged the bottle for another, slightly smaller. “This would give you about a day to live. How much fun I could have with you then- Or maybe…” he trailed off. Putting the bottle down he turned. With a calculating eye, he looked over Tristan, taking in his tense form, and the way his feet were turned in, and how his legs pulled against the rope binding them apart. A feral smile etched it’s way onto his face. 

“I had hoped, and I suppose it’s worked out nicely. You’ve been out for ages. Fredas* afternoon it was when you slipped in. It’s Loredas* now. Nearly midday. You must be hungry, thirsty. I bet your bladder’s real full.” 

There was no way Tristan could keep his blush from giving him away. By Sithis, he hadn’t relieved himself in nearly a day. No wonder he was about to burst. The Nord laughed. 

“Look at you! Blushing like a bride. Is my little assassin embarrassed? Do you want me to untie you so you can piss?

Tristan narrowed his eyes in the closest thing he could manage to a glare. He was not going to give in to his captor’s stupid games. Then again, he wasn’t exactly sure what he _was_ going to do. 

With another laugh, and a shake of his head, the Nord walked around him and back up the stairs. Tristan thought about letting go, just so that he could do it in privacy. Being seen in wet clothes was at least slightly less humiliating than wetting himself in front of his enemy. Before he could make a decision, the footsteps came back. This time, accompanied by the cruel swooshing of water. Tristan grimaced and squirmed as much as he could. It was too hard to stay still with that sound filling his ears. Along with a chuckle, apparently. His blush darkened.

“Your lips are cracked. I’ll be kind and give you some water.” Kind. Right. Tristan refused to look at him as he came back around in front of him. “Aren’t you grateful?” He gave no answer. 

His captor approached slowly, and sat a cup on the floor between his feet. With one hand still swishing the jug, he reached out and lay a hand across Tristan’s bladder. He pushed lightly, but it was enough to make Tristan gasp. He chuckled, and pushed harder, drawing a desperate moan from Tristan’s lips. 

“I’ll ask again, aren’t you grateful?” 

So he was being threatened. Well then, he knew what to do in the face of threats. Ignore them. 

“Proud little mite, aren't you. I suppose it’s in your nature. You Bretons always think you’re better than us. Better at magic.”

Ah, the heart of the matter. A Nord Sorcerer, bitter about his, hm… _natural disadvantages_. He’d encountered someone like this before. She’d been a feisty little assassin. Much like Astrid, but in love with destruction magic. Unfortunately her flare for the dramatic had gotten her caught. 

“That’s because we are.”

“Doesn’t help you much when my poisons flow through your veins. Tell me then, master magician, can you feel your magic now? Can you use it?” A beat of silence. “Well then, it’s not going to be very much help that you’re , now, is it?” He laughed and picked up the cup. 

He filled it slowly, a trickle of water that sounded so much like… Tristan tore his eyes away, twisting his feet and legs. If he pushed his back hard up against the chair, the rope around his waist didn’t dig in so far. He held his breath and tried to think of other things. Only one small trickle escaped him while the water was tormenting him. Tristan thanked Sithis his robes were thick and dark enough to hide any leaks. 

Then the cup was being pressed to his lips, and water spilled over and trickled down his face and neck. Tristan's bladder convulsed, and he cried out in an effort to hold it all in. The Nord tipped the water into his open mouth and forced his jaw up and closed. He dropped the jug on the floor and pinched his nose shut, forcing him to swallow. Tristan bent forward, gasping for breath, he moaned as the rope cut into his bladder. 

“Getting hard to hold it?” 

Tristan could hear the jug falling and smashing to pieces on the ground, water splashing everywhere, in his head on repeat. He tried to block it out, but he couldn’t. It was like he was aware of every drop of liquid both inside and outside of his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to pretend he was imagining the slow spreading of hot piss over his crotch. He was in so much pain. 

Tristan opened his eyes just in time to see the Nord hold out his fist and mutter a few words. The water on the floor rose up and formed a ball, floating in midair between them. A few more leaks forced their way out at the sight of it, but Tristan held onto his control with all his might. Then the Nord opened his hand, and the water crashed over Tristan’s lap. He couldn’t hold on any longer. 

“Aahhh!” he cried out as his muscles gave up. He hunched forward in his seat, relief and humiliation at war over him as he listened to a mixture of piss and water trickling over the sides of the chair and splashing around him on the floor. 

“Pathetic,” the Nord spat at him, and left. His footsteps echoed up the stairs and into the main house. Tristan was left sitting in his own waste.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: being tortured by the sound of running water
> 
> *Fredas and Loredas are the days of Friday and Saturday in this world


End file.
